The gentle dame and the villein, or the new Heloise
by Hetep-Heres
Summary: Written for Whatisthisautumnsorcery who wanted a Medieval S/T AU. Loosely inspired by Heloise and Abelard's story. Lady Sybil, a well-read young noble lady, has no intention whatsoever to let marriage interfere with her schooling. And if she agreeds to give in to lust, love is another matter altogether. But perhaps the manservant she's teaching to will upset her well-laid plans.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Read?" Lord Grantham asked, astounded. "But... we have scriveners and readers for that! Why would she want to learn how to read? I never have, and I am no worse off!"

But as Robert Crawley, current Earl Grantham, couldn't deny anything to his youngest daughter, he granted the child her strange wish.

* * *

A few years later, twelve-years-old Lady Sybil Crawley was buried nose deep in a very expensive illuminated manuscript her tutor had managed to borrow from the monks of the nearby Downton Abbey when her attention was distracted by a very loud whinnying sound outside. She took a look through the muntin window: the new stable boy, a foreigner with a strange accent, was having some difficulties with her father's new horse. Apparently the colt didn't totally agree with the idea of anyone mounting it.

She went back to her desk and sat down again. The whinnying went on some more time: that colt really was a handful!

Suddenly, a human cry was heard, closely followed by the sound of a gallop and a heavily accented voice calling after it. Curious, she rushed again to the window: the horse was nowhere to be seen but the young man was lying on the ground, holding his knee with both hands. He called again, for help this time.

Poor man, Sybil thought, but fortunately some servant from the house or gardener or gatekeeper would surely come to his help. She went back to her reading:

_'For it is not by being richer or more powerful that a man becomes better; one is a matter of fortune, the other of virtue. Nor should she deem herself other than venal who weds a rich man rather than a poor, and desires more things in her husband than himself. Assuredly, whomsoever this concupiscence leads into marriage deserves payment rather than affection; for it is evident that she goes after his wealth and not the man, and is willing to prostitute herself, if she can, to a richer.' (__1)_

Sybil was surprised that Héloïse d'Argenteuil's writings managed to pass through the filter of her tutor's censorship, or that it even made it to the Abbey: probably the librarian there had a keen interest in some of the most unusual and unconventional branches of philosophy...

She was disturbed again in her reading by the stable boy's calls. Didn't anyone come to his help?

_Alright, I know what I have to do, then._

And tearing herself from Héloïse's theories, she stood up and left the room, calling for either her tutor or a maid.

No answer. Where was everybody?

Sighing, she knew she'd have to go to the injured man herself, even though it generally wasn't the done thing. But sometimes necessity knew no law, and this was force majeure, after all.

She went down the stone stairs and then exited the big manor through the service entrance. Hiking her skirts a few inches up, she ran to the man who had crawled to a nearby tree and was now trying to stand by bearing against its trunk for support. When he saw a flash of reddish orange rush to him he stopped short, recognising the youngest lady of the manor in the slightly chubby and spotty kid wearing a refined velvet dress running to him: he had already caught a few glimpses of her a few times before, even though the main focus of the whole household was her older sister.

But what was the young missy doing here?

"Do you need help?" she asked him as she stopped running to catch her breath.

_Well, what do you think, genius?_ was Tom Branson's first idea of an aggressively sarcastic retort. Honestly, would he be lying on the ground and calling out for help if he didn't indeed _need_ _help_?

And lucky him! all the help God was sending him was a hopeless child, a completely useless little girl, an idle young madam who probably couldn't do anything with the ten fingers the Maker gave her, except embroidering!

But since Tom wasn't particularly eager to be whipped or beaten or sacked, he held his tongue in check in front of this miniature good-for-nothing parasite of society and forced out his most respectful and submissive voice:

"As a matter of fact, Milady, I do. Can I ask you to please go get some help inside the manor? I'm afraid I sprained my knee. Unless I broke my leg, I couldn't tell."

But Sybil had read a bit about medicine, and thought she knew enough to recognise a sprain from a fracture. What puzzled her was that a stable boy couldn't, although he was certainly used to groom and nurse horses... She told the young man so.

"Well, Milady," he hissed through gritted teeth, "it's not the same at all when you are the one suffering!"

"All right," she said, "let me have a look..."

_What?!_

And just like that, with her ink-stained fingers, the girl began palpating his leg from calf to thigh.

_Wow, wow, wow, wait a minute, _Tom thought, suddenly alarmed: if anyone were to witness _that_, he'd be in for a good whipping or a beating. Or perhaps even the rope. Maybe preceded by emasculation. Anyway, he'd be in for some rough time!

He took her wrists to keep her hands away from his leg.

"Milady," he told her, "I really think you should go and get some help from your servants. Please..."

But of course she didn't understand his insistence on her not examining him herself.

"I assure you I know a bit about medicine, more than they probably do. I can help you, I know what to do."

_But who does she think she is?_ he wondered. _Honestly! Probably thinks that being born from His Lordship the Earl Grantham makes her special. Better than us all..._

Really! She was just a kid, what could she know? What he needed was a real, old and seasoned bonesetter. An experienced healer. But she remained totally unaware of his reservations and, quite the contrary, was all too happy and enthusiastic to try her hand on a real patient.

_I'm neither her damn test subject nor her doll, for God's sake! I'm not a puppet or a toy, you spoiled kid! _

She pressed her hand on his chest to make him recline on the grass.

"Just lie back, relax and let me do," she instructed.

_Well, normally I'd rather hear that coming from a real woman than from a kid,_ Tom inwardly reflected, sighing.

Sybil hiked his tunic a few inches up and swiftly untied his woollen hose to roll it down so that she could have a better look at his knee.

This time he couldn't refrain from exclaiming:

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

"Checking your leg," she answered matter-of-factly, not even raising her eyes from his knee to look at his face. "Good news for you: I don't think it's broken. Merely sprained."

"What would you know about that, anyway?" he asked. "...Milady," he then hastily added, suddenly remembering who he was addressing.

"I'll have you know I've read a couple of treatises about medicine: _Liber simplicis medicinae_ by Hildegard of Bingen, Avicenna's _Canon of Medicine_, Galen's..."

Ensued a list of names and titles Tom had never heard about. His mind went elsewhere, wandering inside himself.

"I envy you, Milady," he suddenly sighed, interrupting the flow of her words. "I wish I could read..."

"Read?" she repeated, puzzled. Yes, she wondered, why on earth would a stable boy need to read? It wasn't useful to anything for just taking care of horses...

"Yes Milady, read. And write, too."

_Write_, now? Sybil was going from one surprise to another with this new servant.

"And what for would you want to read or write?" she asked. "What more would you do if you could read?"

"Educate myself," he said. "On everything I could find reading stuff about..."

"Quite a noble ambition," Sybil commented, herself understanding this stance very well.

"And then I could write things too..."

"Really?" she exclaimed, utterly surprised. "And what things, precisely?"

"Things about what I think," he answered.

"_Think_?" she echoed again.

"Are you going to repeat everything I say, Milady?"

"Sorry," she answered sheepishly. "I simply didn't think..."

"...that servants too could think? Do you think we're unable of it, or that we're not allowed too?"

"No! No," she hastily told him, "I assure you I didn't mean... I just never..."

"...thought about it?" he provided.

"Are you going to finish all my sentences?" she asked, mimicking his earlier tone.

"Alright, alright Milady. Let's say 'deuce', shall we?"

She smiled.

"And what else would you do if you could read? I mean, what would it change for you? When you're in the stables or with the horses? Why else would you want to learn to read?"

"Precisely, I might not want to be a stable boy all my life..."

"Of course," she replied. "In a few years, you could be the coachman!" Sybil said, emphasising the position as very enviable for a mere stable boy.

"If I could read, I would learn a lot of things."

"I'm sure you would!" she assured. "But what would you do with your new knowledge?"

"I would better myself. And also..."

He paused, as if he didn't dare voice his wildest dream.

"Also...?" she encouraged him.

"Also... try to do my bit towards changing the world?" he completed with a sheepish dreamy smile.

"Changing the world?" she repeated once more after him. "Why do you want it to change? It's just fine the way it is!"

He snorted, very inelegantly so. Then, seeing that she had been serious, he told her:

"For people like you lot, it certainly is..." He paused. "But for the rest of us all..."

She remained pensive for several seconds during which he feared he had gone too far. What a fool! He'd let himself talk too much. Honestly, telling these things to the Earl's daughter! Dreading what punishment he's receive once she would have repeated his words to her maid, one of her sisters or directly to her parents, he regretted the feeling of trust that had led him to open-heartly confide in her although she was a total stranger to him – and his lord and master's daughter. In other words, one of _them_.

Yet she surprised him when instead of the rebuke he was expecting from her she suddenly blurted out:

"I could teach you, if you want!"

_Uh?_ He wasn't sure he heard her right.

"What?" he couldn't help but say. "...Milady?" he then remembered to add.

"I could teach you. To read. And write."

He took a few seconds to let it sink in. Just for a short moment, it seemed so tempting... But soon, reality got the better of his dreams:

"I wish you could, Milady, but it would take long: I don't have much free time, and I'm not a child anymore. It would take far too long. Years and years."

"So what?" she asked. "You're giving up before even trying?"

"It's not that, Milady," he answered. "But in, what... two... three years at most... you'll be married and you'll go away. I won't have time to learn in just a few hours a week, and you'll only have wasted your time on me."

"Don't sell yourself short," she told him. "You can't know unless you try! And I'm not married yet. My parents must marry off my sister Mary first, she's the eldest. And then it will be Edith's turn. That's how things must be done, and marrying the youngest first when there are still unwed older sister just isn't the done thing..."

"Well, many things can happen in the space of two years..." he said.

"Of course, but Mary doesn't really want our cousin Patrick and... and... well, I don't really know what it's all about, but apparently she's not that marriageable right now, after this byzantine emissary's death, and Father will have to let water flow under the bridge to let time blur things a bit before he finds her another husband worthy of our rank."

"Worthy of... your rank..." Tom repeated after her. "Rank. Of course," he mumbled.

"And next will come my other sister Lady Edith's turn... So as you can see," she said rather joyfully, "I'm afraid you'll have to endure my teaching for the few years to come! If ever you say yes, that is..."

But it was said in the tone of someone who clearly wasn't used enough to hearing the word 'no'. Typical spoiled brat, Tom thought despite himself.

Yet something, he didn't know what, pushed him to simply and immediately answer:

"Yes."

_To Be Continued..._

* * *

_1\. The Letters of Abélard and Héloïse,_ first letter from Héloïse d'Argenteuil to Pierre Abélard, _circa_ AD 1120


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

That's only when young Lady Sybil went back home to the manor that she understood the reason behind the strange absence of any servant on her way: they had then all been in the large office, a part of the manor were Sybil never set foot.

And why were they all there? They were discussing the disturbing news they had just learned from a cupbearer called Thomas who heard His Lordship's secretary read out to the Earl a letter he had received.

"A shipwreck? In the Channel? You're sure you heard right?"

"Both of them? No survivors at all?"

When Sybil heard that her cousin Patrick was presumed dead, her heart immediately went out to her sister. But not to her oldest sister Lady Mary, although she was more or less Patrick's unofficial intended, no; it first went out to her other sister: she knew Lady Edith had some tender feelings for their cousin Patrick, feelings that were apparently mutual.

And indeed of the two sisters, you'd think _Edith_ was the one grieving a fiancé.

* * *

"No, Branson, no, that's not that: when it's the number, it is indeed T.W.O. But when you mean _'also'_, then it is T.O.O." Lady Sybil told him, peeking over his shoulder.

They were in a small room behind the stables, a room which first purpose was to serve as both a workshop and a storeroom. But Tom had found a third use for it: since he had started learning how to read and write, he had made it his 'study'. There was everything he needed there: light, some space, slates, a stool and a workbench he could use as a desk. And privacy.

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry Milady, I should have remembered. I'm afraid I'm hopeless: even after four years I'm still making stupid mistakes."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Branson: considering how few time we can spend on your schooling, I think on the contrary that you're doing very fine! It was merely a careless mistake, just some slip due to a lapse in attention."

Well, yes it was, and Tom was beginning to identify the reason behind his more and more frequent moments of inattention. The truth was, he had been mistaken about the girl the first time he met her: she wasn't exactly the spoiled kid he had first thought she was. Well, not totally, at least. She _was_ indeed a bit of a spoiled kid, and it still sometimes showed, but there was in fact much more about her than just that.

As and when he spent time with her teaching him how to read and write, he discovered she was also compassionate and considerate, persevering and sometimes challenging, trusting and supportive, knowledgeable and willing to share that knowledge. A kind soul.

She could also be quite humble, too. Well, as humble as one of her lot can be, he reflected. Sometimes in the middle of a chat which he could have been having with anyone his own rank, nearly forgetting her station in life and in society, she could suddenly say something, a sentence, an idea that was so typical of people who are born with a silver spoon in the mouth, who had been raised to find only natural that everything is their due, that he suddenly remembered who he was talking with... She was quite a strange product of the combined effects of her upbringing and of what her soul wanted her to be. Of nature and nurture...

Her offer to teach him hadn't only been a well-intentioned spur-of-the-moment whim, a well-meaning passing fancy she'd gotten tired of after a short while, leaving him by the wayside while jollily going on in her own merry way. No. She had been serious about that and stuck to it, even though it was sometimes difficult or demanding.

And as and when she taught him, he had also discovered that she had become quite a scholar. While teaching him over these four past years, she had also been continuously pursuing her own education with her tutors. Her main tutor was teaching her what he knew, and made others teach her what he didn't know. This way she was beginning to be quite erudite.

In short, a bright mind in addition to a kind soul.

But the problem was, and Tom had ruefully become aware of it, that she wasn't a kid anymore. Which meant that she would probably soon get married. Which in turn meant that she would leave. And he would stay, with no tutor anymore although there were still so many things he wanted to learn... This idea had recently cast a shadow on his usually merry mood whenever he was with her.

Truth be told, she had reached marriageable age long ago, but her sisters were still unwed yet, so this sword of Damocles hanging over his schooling had been only very vague these past years.

But now, Lady Mary had finally warmed to her fourth cousin Matthew Crawley – Master Patrick's replacement as the Earl's heir – so finally her father would probably succeed in arranging this marriage of convenience that would indeed be very convenient to him: Lady Mary was obviously past the usual marriageable age, and her aloof behaviour deterred more than one potential suitor.

And once Lady Mary would be married, her sister Lady Edith would be all too willing to take anyone her father arranged to marry off her to, if only not to be outdone by her already married sister – Lady Mary and Lady Edith seemed to always be at odds about everything, at each other's throats, and Lady Edith was often trying to compete with her older sister.

So Lady Edith would probably soon follow Lady Mary at the altar.

Then would come Lady Sybil's turn... and although he knew he would try to be happy for her when this day comes, he knew it would feel like a real loss to him. Not only from a purely educational point of view but also on a more personal level: little by little a kind of friendship had burgeoned between them. Well, as far as masters and servants could be considered 'friends', of course! Friendship required reciprocity and equality, and by no means could a mere stable boy be considered equal to a noble lady; not according to society's standards anyway.

Tom let out a sigh. Lady Sybil mistook the reason for it:

"Don't lose heart, Branson. You've already made so much progress! You can't know how proud I felt the day you gave me back the book of hours I had lent you a few days before, and you told me you had read the Song of Songs from beginning to end!"

He chuckled at the memory:

"I remember, Milady. You also asked me if I hadn't felt too shocked at its content..."

A very light rosy blush coloured her cheeks and her forehead.

"Well," she said, "I was very young then..." she found as an excuse.

He smiled.

"But old enough to understand certain things, apparently..." he teased her.

"And to feel a bit shocked myself," she defended herself.

He chuckled again.

"And now, Milady?"

"Now I'm shocked that _you_ seemed to understand them perfectly, mister!" she retorted in a teasing voice.

"Is there anything I can say in my own defence?" he asked with a grin.

"Hmm, I don't think so," she answered.

"Well, in that case," he playfully replied, "I think I'll just keep quiet and go back to working on my handwriting, Milady"

"I think that's the wise thing to do, kind sir..."

He picked up the quill and dipped its end in the black ink.

Strangely enough, no one in the manor ever wondered where Lady Sybil was or why she was spending so much time outside. Especially near the stables. Perhaps they were supposing she had discovered some passion for horseriding? But anyway, everyone was so focused on Lady Mary and the cautious pavane-like relationship she was 'dancing' day after day with the Earl's heir that no one was really paying attention to what the nerdy bluestocking last daughter could be doing. Probably buried nose-deep in some parchment somewhere in the park.

"I still have a very long way ahead of me before I'm able to write down full texts about what I think and what I want to express..." Branson sighed.

And just like that, as much on an impulse as when she had offered to teach him to read, she blurted out:

"You could dictate it to me!"

He raised his head to her, stupefaction and questioning painted all over his face.

"Well, yes," she went on, "I'd write it down for you. I'd be your scrivener, in a way..."

He was totally taken aback: _what?_ But that would be a real reversal of their respective situations! He couldn't... _She_ couldn't... he couldn't give the orders, she couldn't act the servant here... and certainly not _his_ servant!

"I... I..." he stammered, "Milady, I would never dare _dictate_ to you..."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! What you have to say is important, your views are interesting!"

"But what's the point, Milady? I don't have anyone to address letters to!"

"You could address them to me!"

"But there is no need to write them down for that, Milady! We can see each other two or three times a week!"

"It does not mean I don't want to read or re-read your ideas and your reasoning!"

"Still," he objected, "it would feel strange for me to dictate to you, since you're my master's daughter... and my tutor, in addition to that!"

"Don't see it like that, Branson!" she said. "Or on second thought, do: I'm your tutor, yes; and I'll also be your secretary: let's say that it balances this all, it would make things even. So, what do you say of that?"

He thought for a few seconds. The offer was tempting. Very tempting indeed. Leaving a trace of his words, and thoughts, and ideas... Exactly what he was hoping for, when he started to learn four year earlier... And the idea of spending even more time with Lady Sybil wasn't downward unpleasant either, the two of them were getting along nicely...

"I say 'deal', Milady," he finally answered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"That was a beautiful wedding, Milady," Tom Branson told Lady Sybil, "and the party in the village was really great! How was it in the castle?"

"Oh, the ball was absolutely magnificent! And Mary was beaming. _Lady_ Mary, I mean... Well, it's only natural: it was her wedding day, after all! But I wish I could have attended the village dance too..."

"Well, you cannot have it all, Milady" he teased her. "Even people your lot can't have everything they want..."

"Mary has," Lady Sybil replied. "She has Matthew and through him she will also have Downton. And she'll also have the station in life she didn't want to lose through a 'lesser' marriage. She has love and she'll stay here, on this land she's so attached to, in the manor she was born in... She has both of the two loves of her life."

_She'll stay here_... Her words echoed in Branson's mind, and he somehow suddenly regretted that Lady Sybil wasn't the one who married the heir; that way she would have stayed here in Downton forever. And Master Matthew was a kind man: he wouldn't have found anything to object to his wife pursuing her education or even teaching servants.

But strangely, part of him wasn't totally at ease with the idea of her being married to Master Matthew. He didn't know why: the heir was a rather good man and the two cousins were getting along very well...

Anyway, he didn't want to think about that right now. But since it wouldn't be Master Matthew, then it would be someone else, he knew that. Someone who'd take her away from there. From her 'pupil'. From him.

"Soon you will be the one getting married, Milady," he told her, trying to hide his disappointment and regret. "I'll be sincerely happy for you, but may I say I will sorely miss our lessons?"

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, Branson. I'm not gone yet. I'm afraid you won't get rid of me that easily."

"And I assure you I don't want to, but now that Master Matthew is married, there is no other suitable match left for you or Lady Edith to remain here in Downton..."

"It doesn't matter, Branson, since as a matter of fact, I recently came to the conclusion that I didn't want to get married."

His eyes grew wide as saucers and he gaped at her.

"WHAT?" he finally asked. "Milady..." he remembered to add.

"Yes," she explained, "marriage is an impediment to serious and thorough studies. Moving from one place to another at the whim of the king or some other overlord ordering your husband around, and having to either follow him or hardly see him at all isn't propitious to the pursuing and deepening of knowledge and profound reflexion. Being tied to someone every day of your life and until your last breath is contrary to the human nature, since people aspire to exist as themselves first and foremost; so this bond, these ties are indeed shackles which enchain two people to each other, restraining their freedom; their freedom of movement at first, and of mind in the end... And the constant crying of babies troubles the necessary mental focus to achieve some real thinking. So no, I've decided not to get married."

_Wow,_ Tom thought, completely flummoxed, she had quite a strong opposition to marriage, and a rather dim and gloomy view on it. That was rather unusual; and what about love?

"Well," he told her, "I'm afraid that at the end of the day, it might not just depend on you... And what if your parents finally find a husband for you? Or what if some young and noble gentlemen start courting you?"

"I'll see to deter them, that's all. I'd bore them to death with Thomas Aquinas's scholasticism and his works on Aristotelian philosophy, or I could bore them stiff by endlessly telling them about Saint Augustine's thoughts and reflections about the nature of time. Or I'd ask what they think of the controversy between Bernard of Clairvaux and Pierre Abelard. Or even–"

"And what if some of them are not bored by this?" Branson asked her. "What if they're not deterred? What if they are indeed interested in conversing about this with you? What will you do, then?"

"Well, converse with them, of course!" she answered right back. "Lord knows I could do with some interesting people around me..."

Tom looked crestfallen.

"Oh," she hastily added, "I wasn't saying that for you! Of course you're interesting to talk to!"

"I don't know a tenth of the things you just talked about, Milady!" he contradicted her.

"But what you _think_ is interesting, even if you don't know everything. I certainly don't know everything either..."

He smiled his thanks.

"So," he told her, "if one of your suitors meets your requirements, you'll get married. And move away."

"If someone meets my requirements, as you phrased it, I'll make a friend of him and I'll be happy and thankful for this friendship. But it does not mean I'll marry him."

Somehow, he felt lighter at this idea, even though it still puzzled him greatly.

"You won't say that if you fall in love with him after some time..." he mumbles.

"Love?" she echoed, surprised.

"Well, yes Milady, love. Or do you disregard love as much as marriage? Don't you believe in love?"

"What's love got to do with all this?" she asked. "We were talking about _marriage_, here... Don't do as though you didn't know these are two separate matters! Or else it means that you have read too much courtly romance, now that you can read..." she teased him.

"What about Lady Mary and Master Matthew, then?"

"They're an ideal match," Sybil answered. "The fact that they love each other is just icing on the cake. But Mary is hardly a scholar, anyway, so she had to find something else in her husband. Other interests than philosophical talks with him."

"But don't you believe in love, Milady?"

"I do. As much as I also think it has nothing to do with marriage. Perhaps I will fall in love with someone one day and he wouldn't love me back. Or maybe he would, and we'd share this love but remain unwed..."

He eyed her intently, trying to decipher what she was meaning. Then his eyes widened exaggeratedly.

"Are you... suggesting... what I think–"

She giggled.

"Breathe, Branson, your face is turning all red," she said in a throaty and amused laugh. "I think I should lend you the copy of Heloise d'Argenteuil's writings I've borrowed once again from the Abbey some weeks ago. You might find her views on the subjects of love, lust and marriage very interesting!"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, she professes that love is enough to lovers, that it is self-sufficient and sustains itself if it is sincere; to her, love is free, and she doesn't want to enchain it for fear it adulterates its inherent nature. She says that sin does not reside in acts but in intentions; not in the flesh but in the minds. And following that train of thought, since marriage is contracted with ulterior motives and with a near obligation to carnal intimacy on both parts, she therefore more or less describes it as mutual contractual prostitution."

Tom was flabbergasted: never would he have imagined hearing _this_ word come out of the mouth of such a fine and well-bred young lady!

Once he recovered from his shock, he told her:

"You're quite the revolutionary, Milady."

"I'm not a revolutionary. I don't want to impose my way of life on others, I don't want to force anyone to live according to my views; I'm not trying to change the way the world works: I just want people to respect my choices and wishes, and not to impose _their_ way of life and views on me..."

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Decidedly, Tom Branson thought, this Lawrence Grey was getting really annoying. Sybil – no! _Lady_ Sybil – had been going on and on about William of Champeaux's dialectics for the last quarter of an hour – Tom could have sworn she was doing it on purpose! – but although Sir Lawrence obviously didn't care one second about it, he was still clinging to her and starry-eyedly hanging to her every word.

He might be a knight, and noble, and as highborn as she was, Tom could see she didn't care much about him or his praises. But clearly enough, Sir Lawrence Grey was totally oblivious to it.

_What concern is it of yours? _Tom Branson told himself as he was grooming the knight's magnificent horse. Yet he couldn't bring himself to be totally indifferent to the man's presence around Lady Sybil.

Lord Merton, Sir Lawrence's father and Lady Mary's godfather, had been visiting a lot lately, bringing his sons with him much to Tom's dismay. The official reason for his frequent stays in Downton was that he was visiting his old friends Lord and Lady Grantham, his goddaughter and her husband; but his visits had become vey frequent for mere courtesy calls, and everyone here had guessed the unofficial reason behind this facade: Lord Merton seemed to genuinely enjoy conversing with Lady Isabeau, Matthew's mother and Lord Grantham's distant cousin by marriage.

Yes, Lord Merton's interest in Lady Isabeau's conversation seemed to be far more heartfelt and genuine than his son's in Lady Sybil's.

Still, Tom Branson repeated to himself, this really was none of his concerns, right?

* * *

For the last hour or so Sybil, precariously sitting on the wobbly worm-eaten stool of the stable's workshop, had been studiously writing down what Branson was dictating. She didn't mind playing scrivener for him, the only problem was that when he was getting carried away by his thoughts and ideas, his excitement over what he was talking about got the better of him and he was then starting to speak rather fast.

"Stop, stop, please Branson, slow down, I'm not even finished with your previous sentence!"

"Oh, uh... I'm sorry Milady. I should have thought... uh... that you... I mean, I'm sorry."

"You're repeating yourself Branson," she said in a smile. "All right, where were we? Let's see... _'common people's opinion is therefore totally non-existent in the eyes of the mighty ones, although it constitutes...'_ is the last thing I wrote."

"...although it constitutes the major part of the population and the one providing for the others through their labour, be it working the land, crafting, or trading. And as long as no one–"

"Wait , wait, wait! Not so fast, Branson!"

"Oh! I did it again, Milady, right?"

"Right. I am going to get the writer's cramp, thanks to you!" she gently admonished him, giggling.

"Sorry."

"Stop repeating that over and over. Just give me some time."

"I promise! But maybe you want to have a break, Milady, I must be boring you to tears with my constant–"

"Oh no!" she cut in, "quite the contrary in fact, I find your views really interesting! I must admit you have opened a whole new world to me: a year ago, I thought I knew everything – well, no, not everything, but I thought I knew very much about the world around me. But as a matter of fact, I was totally oblivious to such a huge part of this world... I didn't even imagine... no, in fact I didn't even _think_ about the way servants or burghers or serfs or villeins lived. Or thought, for that matter."

She sheepishly hung her head.

He didn't like to see her berate herself like that. And couldn't bear to see her sad. Especially as he was under the deceptive impression that _he_ had caused this sadness. On impulse, he did the unthinkable: he slowly and carefully raised his hand as to almost touch her face; and then, tentatively, hesitantly, he brushed the tip of his fingers under her chin.

She still didn't look at him.

Emboldened by his own daring gesture, he closed his hand a bit, and with the knuckle of his index finger he gently made her raise her head so that her eyes could meet his. And without uttering a word, he told her through his gaze only that she had nothing to blame herself for.

She seemed to catch the global meaning of it, since she nearly imperceptibly nodded. Then she took a deep breath to steady her voice and told him:

"I'm so grateful to you for making me discover all that was right before my eyes but that I had been unable to see. You're broadening my horizons, you're opening a door on a whole wider world for me. So in fact we're sort of trading knowledge and teaching: I teach you how to write, and you teach me about the world most people live in... I teach you the views of the ancient and current philosophers... and you teach me yours!"

He suddenly realised the very intimate and improper gesture he was having toward her and hastily removed his hand.

_Strange,_ she reflected as she finally became aware of the touch of his finger the moment he removed it, _it somehow now feels like some... some _loss,_ somewhere around my chin... Funny how skin sometimes reacts... _She felt heat come to her face. What? Was she blushing? Oh, dear, that would be ridiculous! She dispelled this idea and shook her head to clear her mind.

"To think I believed I knew so much," she reflected aloud, "when in fact I did know so little! And now the more I learn and discover new things, the more I become aware of how little I know and of how much I _don't_ know!"

Tom chuckled.

"Socrates, uh? _'I know one thing: that I know nothing'_."

She shot a rather appreciative look at him.

"Very good, Branson!" she exclaimed. "I didn't think you'd remember. I must admit I'm impressed!"

Once again, he felt a real pride at hearing her praise. But much to his dismay, though, he realised that he was blushing. How embarrassing! Why did he have to turn beet-red each time she paid him a compliment, now? It didn't happen in the past years of their... their what? _Collaboration?_

"I hardly compare with you, Milady," he mumbled.

"Well, maybe we shouldn't try to either compare or compete: in fact I must confess I'm rather envious of you, Branson..."

"_Envious_, Milady? Of _me_?"

"Yes, Branson. You have quite a way to express your thoughts. It... when you dictates, it seems to flow from your lips like something so natural... so... simple! It runs like honey or milk out of your mouth and I revel in its fluidity. It seems so easy! But when I'm alone and trying to write down my thoughts, I struggle, I can't seem to find the right words, and I... well, I realise now that I finally end up repeating other's words, or expressions, or snippets of sentence. Since I have read a lot I can almost look the part by calling to something I have come across, but in the end, I know I'm just paraphrasing others."

He looked at her questioningly.

"I don't know what this word means, Milady," he finally admitted, hanging his head, a bit ashamed at his ignorance.

"Oh! It simply means that I rephrase their ideas with slightly different words, or that I say the same thing differently. But the idea is not originally mine, it's still theirs. Just like now, when you recognised Socrates when I wasn't even aware I was more or less quoting him. But when I have to express an idea of my own, I don't always know how to phase it..."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Milady: if you and him said the same thing, maybe it is because this idea is simply very true, not necessarily because you copied him!"

A surge of gratitude blossomed deep inside her. His faith in her made her more confident in her own abilities. She smiled at him: he really made life more beautiful!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Oh, dear, she hated it! This... this... this gut-roiling, churning, wrenching sensation in the pitch of her stomach, this stir... this nearly unpleasant and strange tickling and heat in her belly, suffusing to her chest... and lately even further down in her insides, along with some hot and almost burning something down there; and some oppression sometimes constricting her chest. Not to speak about the bizarre lump in her throat that made it complicated to simply breathe rather normally.

Only whenever Branson was around.

She hated that.

* * *

She couldn't concentrate. He was only a few inches from her, as she was bent over his shoulder, looking at what he was writing.

"That's good, Branson," she managed to say in an almost normal voice.

She was literally breathing on his neck, and instead of focusing on his parchment, she suddenly became engrossed in the contemplation of this small patch of flesh-coloured skin. There, just four inches from her eyes, from her nose, from her lips, some very short bristled hair was moving in rhythm with her own breathing.

_Oh, no!_ she suddenly thought, _he must be feeling it!_ _Feeling me too close from him, from his skin! What must he be thinking of me right now!_

She really should draw back.

She tried. Genuinely tried. But the skin of his neck, right there, so close, seemed so appealing! She found she didn't have enough strength to take a step back, or even to straighten up. She remained hunched over him, hypnotised by this small rectangle of rosy skin, and by the effect her breath was having on his sandy hair.

The thing inside her stomach reared up and tossed and turned, and the strange tickling invaded her from guts to throat.

She finally managed to tear her gaze away from his neck and to look at what he was writing. But her eyes soon stopped on the hand holding the quill... A sturdy, weathered, callused hand, but stained with a few ink blots on the fingers. Fingers which she suddenly wanted to touch with her own, running her pads along them and then smoothly over the back of his hand... She almost reached to it... almost...

But she stopped mid-air.

In a flash of sanity, she sobered up.

And she remembered he was her pupil and she was his tutor. She remembered he was her servant and she was his lord and master's daughter.

He wasn't in any position to refuse her. Probably wouldn't dare to. And masters shouldn't be allowed to impose themselves on their servants, to take advantage of their dominating position to have their way with them.

And there wasn't any reason Branson would welcome her... advances. He was only seeing her as his tutor, his mentor, and his employer. One of his masters. She wasn't even sure he was seeing her as a friend. She knew they weren't on an equal footing, and she knew he knew it too. As much as they didn't agree with the way these things worked, they couldn't feign to ignore it.

And yet...

Yet... she now knew she felt a real strong attraction to her pupil and servant. She had known for some weeks now. Had managed to put a name on this whole set of strange feelings stirring her being whenever she was around him. Or even when she was _not_ around him: it was enough now that she just _thought_ about him...

_Desire_. The name of this very inconvenient disease affecting her.

Another word for that too: _lust_.

It would have been wonderful to give in to it, if only she had felt it for someone of the same rank as hers reciprocating this desire. But fate sometimes had a twisted and wicked sense of humour...

Finally able to take a step back, she sighed heavily, bottling up this surge of natural womanly needs inside her, and composing herself. At least on outward appearance.

"Is everything alright, Milady?"

Apparently he had noticed something, a change in her; or perhaps did he just hear her heavy sigh: it had probably been hard to miss.

He saw she had retreated to the other side of the room; he stood up and took a step closer to her. But the closer he were, the more she was conscious of him, of his presence, of his body; the hotter she was feeling, the more difficult it was to breathe normally.

She swallowed, both melting and burning inside.

_Step back!_ She inwardly pleaded.

He took another step to her. He was now right in front of her, just two feet away.

He suddenly was a bit worried for her: her face had turned a shade of rosy red, her eyes were gleaming, and she looked slightly ill-at-ease.

"Are you feeling unwell, Milady? You look a bit feverish."

_A fever indeed,_ she thought. _Just not the kind of fever you think. This fire, only __**you**__ could quench it._

Worry made him cross a line and he dared to gently take her elbows in his hands. A tremor ran through her whole being.

_Don't touch me, please! Step back! Stop touching me! No, yes, yes touch me, touch me more, please! Touch me much much more!_

Her breath caught. In this moment, nothing else existed than him, his body, and hers, and this storm of desire inside her.

"Come, go get some fresh air Milady."

And he tried to lead her outside.

"No!" she protested.

But then she realised: he hadn't been about to respond to her surge of lust with desire of his own. He had merely been concerned about her sudden change of attitude. Nothing more. She sighed.

"You're right," she said. "I think I should... I'll go back to the manor now, thank you for your concern. Anyway," she added abruptly, "it's now nearly time for my lesson on scholasticism with Brother Thybault."

She set off at a brisk pace, only turning to tell him:

"Good job with your writing! Carry on with it! I'll have a look at it next time..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

This was torture.

Pure, unadulterated torture.

She had tried to turn her attention to other men, but it didn't work. She thought she could find some man of her station who would share her purely physical needs, and indeed such men existed – there was a plethora of them – but she found out she didn't _want_ any of them.

Not _want_ in the way she wanted _him_.

Pfff... what a mess. Why did she have to feel this for one of the only men she morally wasn't allowed to have? And why wouldn't any other young man make the same sensations arise in her? The same desire?

For months and months now, she had been living in hell.

Well, no, not completely: being in his presence was hell, but it also somehow felt like heaven. Sweet and sour, fulfilling and depressing, burning and caressing, pleasant and painful, exciting and frustrating.

Bittersweet.

* * *

Tom couldn't concentrate; his mind and soul were entirely busy trying to come to grips with the stunning realisation that had just dawned on him.

This tremor... this sweet something tickling his belly and speeding up his heartbeats, this cold something spreading in his stomach, this warmth making his throat slightly dry...

Oh, no. Dear Lord, no!

_Love_.

He was in _love_. He had fallen in love. With _her_.

Her. The most wonderful, the kindest, the most compassionate, the most admirable young woman he knew. The most knowledgeable. The brightest person he had ever met. The best-read woman of the vicinity.

And the most unattainable.

_Her_. Of all people, he had to fall in love with _her_.

That couldn't be. He surely was mistaken. He _had_ to be. His troubled and tired mind was playing tricks on him, nothing else.

And as if her being his master's daughter and a woman with clearly no interest in romance wasn't enough, she was his _tutor!_ What would she think of him if she could currently see the troubled thoughts wandering in his mind? Feelings and thoughts so far from knowledge, from philosophy, from wisdom! From logical reasoning!

Oh, no, he just couldn't be in love with her. He was mistaken. Yes, he decided, he was, he _had_ to be mistaken. Just some marvelling of the moth for the star. Admiration from the pupil to his teacher.

Yes, that was nothing more than just that.

He was nearly convinced of it when he made the mistake to raise his head, turn on his stool and look back at her. But the moment his eyes stopped on her, on her figure and most of all on her face, he knew. He knew he had just been lying to himself, he knew this was no simple crush for a higher lady.

And the moment his gaze met her eyes, he was lost. Truth exploded in him, and he couldn't deny it anymore. What he was feeling was too true, too accurate. Too obvious. He _loved_ her. He simply loved her.

And there wasn't a single chance she loved him back. There wasn't any _reason_ for her to love him, he was painfully aware of that. He was neither bright nor well-bred, was hardly knowledgeable; he had nothing to teach her, she wouldn't find in him anything of what she was constantly seeking. She was generously giving him her time and efforts to lift him away from ignorance and was exchanging views with him; this was very kind of her and already much more than any other of her peers had ever done for him, but he didn't have any right to expect anything else from her.

And sure enough, she was standing a good dozen feet away from him, having retreated right at the opposite corner of the small room, as far from his stool as she could. She was standing, stiffly leaning against the wooden wall, both hands clasped behind her back, trapped between herself and the boards. Not exactly the stance of a woman ready to let herself be courted. Or even _thinking_ about it.

But Tom couldn't help himself feeling what he was currently feeling. You can't give orders to hearts. Yet Tom Branson would have wanted to command his to slow down, to be still, and wise, and reasonable. Not to race, to pound like that.

Really, he should tear his eyes away from her. He should. He should stop looking at her. It wasn't doing any good to his racing heart and his wandering mind.

He was insane: what did he think he was doing, falling in love with Lady Sybil Crawley? But it was already too late, he discovered. He hadn't become aware of it before he was past the point of no return.

And there she was, patiently waiting for him to hand her his prose, totally unaware of the silent thunderstorm that had just hit him. She was looking at him, a strange and unreadable expression in her eyes. Well, he thought, she was probably puzzled by his intent and insistent gaze on her.

He finally managed to tear his eyes away from hers, but only to look a few inches down and rest them on her lips. Big mistake. He stared at these with wonder, feeling incredibly drawn to them. His own mouth watered and his breath caught.

Oh no! Good Lord, no! Fantasising over his master's daughter certainly was the last thing he needed, and Lord Grantham or his chamberlain Carson could have him caned for just _imagining_ kissing her if only they knew. But fortunately his thoughts were _his_ and his _only_, and no one but himself was inside his head.

And yet, the idea of kissing her seemed so sweet... akin to honey and milk. _'Sweetness drops from thy lips, __honey__ and milk are under thy tongue' (1)_, he suddenly remembered.

He sighed, forced himself to think of something else, _anything_, and turned his attention back to his parchment.

* * *

1\. _The Song of Songs_, 4:11


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Sybil!" a woman's voice exclaimed just as she was coming out from the stable's storeroom. "What on earth were you doing in that shed?"

_Oh no!_ Sybil groaned inwardly, _Mary! Just my luck!_

Indeed, Lady Mary was there, mounting a horse which had just been saddled and prepared for her by a stable boy. A stable boy who couldn't be Branson, since the latter had been in his 'study' – right here – with her for the last half an hour or so. And was still inside, as a matter of fact.

Best tactic: changing the subject of conversation, Sybil thought:

"Are you sure you should still be riding in your current state? I'm not convinced that's very safe!"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" she sighed. "I'm only pregnant, Sybil, not injured! I'm feeling perfectly well!"

"_Seven months_ pregnant," Sybil emphasised. "Surely mother didn't–"

"Don't even try to divert the conversation, Sybil!" she cut her. "You're just trying to avoid my question, but I'll have none of that. Why were you hiding in that shack?"

"I wasn't hiding!" Sybil protested. "I just–"

But before she had time to elaborate, she saw her sister's eyes grow wide as she simultaneously heard the door behind her squeak open.

_Caught_.

"What... what was this man doing in there with you, Sybil?" Mary asked, pointing her riding crop accusingly at him.

He blanched: a simple word from her to her father and he would be as good as dead, no matter that nothing ever happened.

"Listen, Mary," Sybil said, "this is not what you might–"

"Sybil!" her sister interrupted her, "have you lost your mind? What on earth were you doing in this dingy shack?"

"Mary, I know what this looks like, but I assure you it is absol–"

"Well, I don't even want to know what this _looks_ like," she told her younger sister, "but the possibilities are more than disturbing. So no, I don't want to know what it looks like, I want to know what it actually _is_!"

"Mary, I swear, nothing happened!" Sybil assured her.

_Not that I didn't want it to happen_, she thought inwardly. If she were to be caught and chastised, then she'd have rather actually done, _fully_ done, what she'd be rebuked for.

She sighed.

"Nothing improper or even remotely unseemly happened, Mary, I assure you," she told her eldest sister.

Mary looked at her questioningly and intently, as if trying to gauge her, to assess the truthfulness of what she was saying. But she loved her baby sister and wanted to believe her. But what if that stable boy was abusing her ingenuousness and trusting nature with ulterior motives?

Her scrutinising gaze settled on the man. Sybil's eyes followed hers: he was pallid, white as a sheet, and looked downright frightened.

Oh. She hadn't thought about it. But yes, of course: he was risking much much more than she was. In fact, his life could very well be at stake here, if Mary or their father, or whoever with some power or influence mistook the situation.

She fully turned to him:

"All right," she said, "let's tell her."

He looked at her, a bit unsure. A lowly servant who could read and write, how eccentric, and let's say it, _subversive_!

"She is my sister," Lady Sybil insisted, "I trust her. And anyway, we're doing nothing wrong! Show her, Branson."

He didn't really want to share his 'secret' with someone from the castle. From the Earl's family. Even though it wasn't really secret; let's just say he didn't advertise about it around his masters, as he thought it was none of their business.

"Show her, Branson," Lady Sybil repeated, "or Lady Mary will end up getting the wrong idea..."

His eyes widened again in fear. She was right, he couldn't risk Lady Mary suspecting anything improper; and that would really be too bad being punished for what didn't happen. At least he wouldn't end up being hanged or broken on the wheel for just wanting to be able to read or write. Yet, he didn't like the idea of disclosing to anyone else what had been his and Lady Sybil's little secret. Little world, in fact. Some secret garden of theirs.

Not totally convinced, he hesitantly yielded to her, reluctantly holding to Lady Mary what he had been hiding behind his back all this time.

_A roll of parchment and a quill?_ Mary was more than puzzled at that. She didn't know what she had been expecting, but certainly not this! She took the parchment and unrolled it: it was covered with writings. About what? She would have been at a loss to say it, since she couldn't read.

Fortunately for Branson.

But Lady Mary still didn't have a clue and asked her sister:

"How is _this_ supposed to enlighten me as to what you were doing in this shed? And what's more, with this stable boy!"

"I'm teaching him how to read and write," Sybil explained. "He's made wonderful progress!"

Lady Mary eyed her sister suspiciously. But in fact, it was just like Sybil to take a lowly servant as her pet project and take pity on him. Sweet Sybil... her good heart would be her downfall. If anyone were to learn that she spent hours one-on-one with a male servant hidden in some dingy shack behind the stables, her reputation would be damaged forever! And Lady Mary knew firsthand about the price to pay for even a stain on a reputation; she hadn't forgotten, even if in the end it turned out well for her, after a very long while.

But a shabby Irish stable boy wasn't a Byzantine emissary, and even though pure and sweet Sybil probably didn't think a slight second about... well... about having a roll in the hay, the mere idea of these private lessons might leave a permanent stain on her record if anyone were to know about those.

That's why she decided not to tell a soul. For Sybil, and only for her.

And because she trusted her and her word.

Sybil, for her part, had just only then realised what all this implied for Branson: if she gave in to her needs and desire, he would risk not only his position but much more than that: his skin. Quite literally, in fact: a flaying as punishment wasn't unheard of. And it could also be said that he would risk his neck too, since the noose was the likely outcome for whoever lowly manservant were to make the beast with two backs with their lord's daughter; after all, the Earls Grantham had the right to life and death on their serfs.

She really, really shouldn't impose herself on Branson, impose her physical desires on him: first, because he didn't want her, wasn't asking for anything, but wasn't in any position to refuse her. And then, because she could very seriously endanger him.

Yes, she would bottle up this inside her. Anyway, it would eventually pass. In the end... And if not, or if it was too hard, she could still ask someone else... Someone her rank. Someone who wouldn't risk too much playing this game with her...

But right now, the immediate danger was coming from Mary.

"Please Mary," she told her, "Branson is so talented! That would be a real pity for him to stop his schooling!"

"What?" her sister answered. "You're asking me too much, Sybil. I agree not to tell anyone you've been giving lessons to a servant, but I can't let this situation go on! What if anyone discovers you and gets the wrong idea? No Sybil, I can't let you carry on with this folly."

"Please Mary, please! There is nothing wrong in learning, in getting knowledge! He's made so much progress! We mustn't stop here!"

Mary knew she had to be firm, that Sybil's whim was foolish. She wanted to say no. But her baby sister was so enthusiastic about her project, about her own achievements as an improvised tutor, there were so many stars in her eyes at this simple idea that she couldn't resist. People often thought she didn't have a heart; they were wrong: she had one, one which beat warmly for her younger sister.

And Mary simply didn't have the heart to deprive Sybil of her new toy. So, against her better judgement, she promised. Not to tell a soul, and not to ask her to put an end to these foolish and useless private lessons.

Loving someone really was inconvenient, Lady Mary reflected with an inward sigh.

"You're wonderful, Mary!" Sybil exclaimed before taking her hand in a very child-like excitement. "Thank you so much!"

"Thank you Milady," Branson mumbled, still a bit unsure but clearly relieved too.

"I'm not doing this for you!" she told him. "Now go! I'm sure there are horses needing you."

He didn't need to be told twice and disappeared to the stables.

"Thank you Mary," Sybil repeated. "Now, it's my turn to do something for you: stop riding until the child is born. It will only be two months now."

"Stop mothering me; I'm older than you are, may I remind you?"

"Well, if you don't listen to me, maybe you'll listen to your husband! I'll have Matthew tell you not to ride until you give birth. For both you and the child. He cares for you both, so he'll agree with me."

"Pooh!" Mary answered dismissively, "I always get him to do whatever I want!"

And with this she made her horse turn and gallop to the woods.


	8. Chapter 8

_Milady,_

_My own audacity doesn't cease to aghast me, but I finally decided to write you a letter. Of course, you will tell me, I have already written letters to you, sometimes even dictating these directly to you. Yes, I have; but these letters were about my views and ideas, about what I thought._

_This one is about what I feel._

_You told me one day that you envied the easiness I seemed to have to find words and with forming sentences to express myself. Well, perhaps this is the case as far as my thoughts and ideas are concerned. But now that I am facing this blank parchment I found that words don't come that easily to my mind when it comes down to translate my emotions into either written language or even spoken one, come to think of that. I am struggling with all this. With the words, and with my feelings, my emotions. I wish a language without words would exist to express the depth and strength and desperation but also the pure wonderment of what I am feeling._

_For you._

_Here, that's finally out. I know I have absolutely no right to, I know I'm nothing in this world, on this Earth. I might be nothing, but I know you are everything. And most of all, you are __**my**__ everything. Not only I have no right to feel this for you, but I have even less the right to tell you so. But I am nearly suffocating under the weight of these feelings, and I know it has to come out or I would eventually stop breathing. _

_I love you._

_Here. I've said it. Or rather written it._

_I'm sorry to do this through a letter, but I don't trust myself to speak it loud and clear in front of you. I know I'd back off. Or I'd bumble and falter. That's why I chose the written form, so that I could lay down what I want to tell you, and have a chance that you would read it to the end whereas if I were saying this aloud in person, you might tell me to keep quiet, to stop talking nonsense, or even to go away._

_Please don't tell me to go away. I know you haven't asked me anything, I know you don't want anything from me, haven't done anything for me to feel this. I know you never did anything wrong, never thought about anything that sort about me, but I beg you to understand that I haven't done anything wrong either._

_I'm not expecting anything from you, I'm not asking for anything else than your presence and your continued lessons and encouragement._

_If I were one of yours, a well-born baron or a noble knight, I would ask for your permission to court you, and I would go to your father and tell him that my intentions are pure and serious. If we were living in a world where mere villeins weren't promised to the gallows for courting their Lord's daughter, I would dare tell you in person of my feelings, and I would ask you to leave with me. And you would answer either yes or no, but at least I would have the right to ask you without risking my life or condemning you to live as an outcast, to a life of misery, of constantly running away, of hiding. Perhaps such a world will exist in a few decades or centuries, perhaps I was born several centuries too early, perhaps in half a millennium I would have dared to ask you to leave with me._

_And very probably you would have answered no anyway, but at least I would have asked._

_But in the real world, in the world we are living in, I can't. I hardly have the right to tell you that I love you with my whole being._

_But all the same, I do it: I have fallen hopelessly in love with you. I love you._

_You can do whatever you want with this letter: keep it carefully hidden, burn it, or show it to your father: if I am to be beaten because of what I feel for you, if my fate is perhaps even to die because of this love, then so be it: what remains of my family is far away, they are safe of any retribution from yours, or from anyone else. And if I die because you were offended by this letter or afraid of my feelings, know that I won't resent you. If I am to die because of this love, be sure that my last thought will be for you, and my last prayer to the Lord will be for your happiness._

Branson re-read his unfinished letter for the umpteenth time. Despite what he claimed in it, he didn't feel ready to die, he certainly didn't want to; he wasn't terribly eager to get a severe beating either. And most of all, he didn't feel ready to face her very probable rejection of his declaration. Of his feelings.

He had written this letter weeks ago in his clumsy and hesitant scribbling, but he still hadn't had the guts to give it to her, hadn't plucked up the courage to do so.

He sighed. He was still hesitating, had already been on the verge of handing her this parchment, had always backed off at the last second, still unsure whether it was a good idea or not.

And after all, what good would it do in the end? Yes, what would it do except possibly making her feel bad about him, about this unrequited affection? Except perhaps scaring her away from him?

He remembered this day Lady Mary had seen her come out from the shed: Lady Sybil had told her nothing untoward had happened. She had been able to say this without lying at all. But if he were to give this letter to her, if he were to tell her about his feelings for her, then she couldn't say this without it being slightly untrue...

And what if she decided never to see him ever again?

He sighed again and once more, he folded the parchment and hid it carefully in the middle of his few other belongings. He still didn't feel ready to give it to her.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

They were in 'their' workshop, it was late afternoon and as always since the day Mary had caught her near the stables with Branson, Sybil was carefully keeping a respectful distance of ten to twenty feet away from him; she had retreated to her new usual spot at the opposite side of the small room, as far as possible from his stool. And from his still very enticing neck. And hands. And cheeks. And jaw. And lips. And–

_STOP!_

_Stop this immediately,_ she ordered herself.

Pure hell. And yet she was still there, day after day. Yet she was always coming back for more frustration. Something was probably being very wrong with her, that couldn't be otherwise.

She knew it could cost Branson dearly if she gave in to her lusty need, and the benefit of it probably wasn't worth the very high risk it would put him in. She had no right to endanger him that way. Not for her own benefit.

That's why she had decided to stay away from him as much as she physically could, this physical limit being right now the walls of the shed they were in. She was flattening herself against the wood, in a desperate attempt to put some more inches between herself and the object of her irrational desire.

Tom, for his part, had noted she had been acting... differently, for some time. She had been more distant, less enthusiastic. Cooler. More _businesslike_ even, in her teaching. There was no more friendly banter, no more serious talk about what he was writing or dictating, no more exchange of ideas or of dreams. They had both reverted to their respective roles of master and servant, of tutor and pupil. She had also been more subdued and cautious around him.

It was bothering him. And even _worrying_ him, too. He turned on his stool and stood up, taking a step to her. He saw her tense.

"Milady, did I do something wrong?"

At this, she looked totally surprised.

"What?"

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked again. "Please Milady, tell me what. Whatever it is, I didn't intend to offend you, I swear!"

"But... but..." she stuttered, puzzled. "No Branson, you didn't do anything wrong."

He took another step to her. She took a deep breath in.

"But I must have," he insisted. "And I don't know what it is, but you seem to... to resent me for something."

"I don't, Branson, I swear!" she assured him, instinctively taking a step forward to emphasise her words.

_Oh, dear!_ she thought, horrified. He had noticed the distance she had tried to put between them, and he was taking it for himself, felt he was to blame for that, when _she_ was! Poor man.

"Then if it is not me, it's something else!" he told her. "Please Milady, tell me what is wrong, and I'll try to make it right! Insofar as I can, of course..."

He took another step forward, she took one back, and she hated herself for that.

"Has it..." he hesitated, a very unpleasant thought sprouting in his mind, "has it anything to do with Sir Lawrence Grey? Is His Lordship envisaging giving him your hand in marriage...?"

"WHAT?" she cried out "I certainly hope not!"

She eyed him suspiciously.

"Why do you...?" she asked, slightly alarmed. "Have you... Did you hear anything about such a project?"

She looked horrified.

"No!" he immediately said to reassure her. "No, nothing that sort. I just thought... I mean, I thought that something must have happened to you..."

Then he blanched as another idea hit him:

"You are not... you wouldn't be... ill, Milady? You are... fine... in good health I mean, aren't you? No serious illness..."

"I am all right, Branson, rest assured, I am all right." She smiled at him, to confirm her words. "No illness. And no marriage. Everything is fine."

He let out a relieved sigh, taking another step to her without thinking. Relief made him even dare take her hands in his, instinctively, with no ulterior motive. But it triggered something in her, in both of them.

He felt his mouth go dry but simultaneously he also felt it water exaggeratedly. What a strange feeling, he reflected. He had to swallow. Hard. She stared at his Adam's apple, hypnotised by the movement it made it make. Then she tore her gaze away from his throat only to settle it again on his face, feeling her own getting rather pleasantly warm. Her breathing went short, her heartbeat sped up.

Later, when she'll recall this moment, she won't remember who leaned first, who dared first, who touched first his or her lips to the others', but she'll remember what it felt like, kissing him. How felt his lips, which she had been fantasising about for months, what his intakes of breath felt like, what the wetness of his mouth felt like, the warmth of it, the feeling of his tongue tentatively gliding along hers, responding to hers.

And the sensation of his hair between her fingers, as she was sliding her hands through it at the back of his head. And the touch of his hands and fingers tentatively holding her waist, and then her hips, a bit unsure.

This wild whirlwind of crazy and strong sensations that emptied her mind of any rational thought, of any thought at all was both exciting and terrifying. She wanted conflictingly to sink deeper down into it but also to retrieve what could still be salvaged of her sanity and reason.

Gathering all the strength she was still capable of calling upon to clear her mind and tear it from this sweet but dangerous folly, she finally managed to pull away, panting, flushed, dizzy, but horrified at her own boldness and selfishness. But at the same time, this sweet and intense foretaste of heaven left her craving for more. Much more. A 'more' that she wasn't morally allowed to take from him, she knew that. If only for his own good. But also simply out of respect for his own will.

Later on she wouldn't remember who really initiated this kiss, but at the time she was sure _she_ was the one who did, and who took advantage of him. Their respective stations in life said so. Her role as his tutor also put her in another dominating position. And she was the one who had been aroused at the mere idea of him for weeks and weeks now. Lusting after him. Even dreaming of him at night – and what for a dream it was!

She was the Lady, the master, the tutor, here. And the one who had been having very improper thoughts for months now. She was responsible for what just happened, and was ready to take all the blame for it.

But she would have never thought before this moment that it would be so hard to stop herself from further kissing and fondling him.

"No," she forced herself to whisper between two short intakes of breath, as much aimed at him as to convince and chastise herself. "I shouldn't have."

He looked at her, feeling dazed, appalled, dreamy, awed, confused, ashamed, all this at the same time.

"Milady..." he managed to utter breathily, at the cost of great efforts.

"I'm sorry," she cut him, not daring to look him in the eyes, "I shouldn't have... I..." she swallowed a lump in her throat. "I apologise. I... I don't know what craziness has gotten into me... It was a stupid thing to do."

Well, yes she knew what got into herself. It was called _lust_. But she could never admit it to him. She then forced herself to look at him and added:

"Please Branson, forgive me. Let's forget..." She paused. "Please let's put this behind us. It wasn't anything, I swear. I promise... I promise I shan't do that ever again. "

She hastily thrust a parchment and a quill in his hands, forced a strained smile on her lips and ordered him with the falsest detached tone she'd ever heard anyone use:

"Now sit. You aren't finished with what you were working on."

Feeling inwardly dejected, Branson hazedly complied.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

She was lying flat over him, _onto_ him, totally spent, exhausted. Covering him like a blanket, skin against skin, with their sweats mingling between them, she was slowly coming down, her laboured breathing tickling his hair and drying the damp skin of his shoulder.

_Oh..._ she hazedly thought.

So, they had been at it again.

Once more.

The first time, once the frenzy was over, they had felt terribly awkward to each other. At least _she_ had. Wonderful, yes, but awkward. She knew it shouldn't have happened. She knew she had had no right to. Just like when she had kissed him a few days before. A spur-of-the-moment thing which got a bit out of hand. She told him so. She told him she was sorry, told him she shouldn't have taken advantage, told him she didn't have any right over him.

And he replied that she didn't take advantage. Then in the end, once their respective clothing were straightened, he had agreed to her statement that it had been a moment of madness, that it wouldn't happen again, that it could only interfere with his schooling and her studies, that they both were better than just mere bodies, that lust shouldn't get the better of their minds. That they should both forget it and get over it.

He _had_ agreed, hadn't he? Or else... at least tacitly so, right?

She had told him that she was sorry, that she regretted, but inwardly she knew it was not totally true: she couldn't get herself to regret. It had been so... so...

_So._ No other word could do justice to it.

It was heart-wrenching for her, but it had to remain a one-time thing, a past fling. She resolved she would deprive herself of it, even at the price of enormous frustration, but they had to. Her schooling, his, her sanity, her reason were at stake, here.

And she stuck to this resolve. _They_ stuck to it.

For two long weeks.

_Ages_, so to speak.

The second time, right after the renewed and unplanned roll in the hay, they had agreed that it was a relapse. A regrettable relapse. It had felt as wonderful as the first time, but as inconvenient too. The same objections to anything of that sort between them still existed.

After that, they had kept their mutual promise to abstain from each other's touch. And they had stood firm to it.

A whole month, this time.

And now, they had just given in to their weakness again. But on this third occurrence of their mutual desire getting the better of their will, for the first time they had at least taken the time to undress, to _really_ undress during the foreplay. Well, in fact this time there had at least _been_ some foreplay worthy of the name. So for the first time they had actually and fully experienced the feeling of each other's skin against their own. Or against their lips and tongues. It had felt... intoxicating, enhancing the already intense and wonderful sensations.

Beautiful, too. It had been the first time she had seen an entirely naked man's body, and she had enjoyed the sight very much.

But now that the frenzy, the physical craving, the arousal, the moment of craziness, the mad excitation were over, now that the lust and the need were calming down, the haze of physical desire and of sheer madness that had been clouding her reason was dissipating and her mind was reverting to its usual sanity and wisdom. Reality and sense hit back.

So. They had lost any grip on themselves again. It was becoming a pattern: they were both in the stable's workshop with only the best intentions, clearly intending to only study, and meaning it; and then somewhere along the way, one thing leading to another, the lesson derails, goes off track, things heat up and finally get out of hand. Or _too much in hand_, in a manner of speaking.

And now Sybil was once again sobering up, through the now almost familiar feeling of coming down from cloud nine. Not unlike a hangover, but far far gentler. Far more _sobering_, too.

So...

They did it again. What a fine mess! But how marvellous, too. Well, as long as no one found out, that was.

Right under her was Branson's body, supporting and welcoming hers like a mattress. His skin pressed against hers vividly reminded her of what they had just been at, a short few minutes before. And how it had been.

The warmth and heat and arousal rising, growing and heightening as and when they were climbing the steps to seventh heaven; all those sensations reaching a peak; their hands and fingers intertwined all through the intercourse; and then extreme, sweet and violent pleasure exploding everywhere.

_Absolutely_ everywhere; inside her, inside her body, inside her head, her skull, inside her legs, down to her knees and even in her ankles, heels and toes. Around her, too. She couldn't tell for sure, since she thought she had then closed her eyes – or else had she just been blinded for a few seconds? – but she thought pleasure invaded the whole shed, splashing onto each wooden wall, projected on these into flashes of bright colours. And somewhere under her, between her thighs, Branson had trembled a lot and moaned a bit. Or was it rather trembled a bit and moaned a lot? She couldn't tell, the scene was still hazy in her mind, her memory of it was foggy. Anyway, what was certain was that he had squeezed and crushed her hands in his own at this precise moment: her knuckles were still a bit sore from it, and his nails had even marked her skin, leaving some semi-circular small imprints on the back of her hands.

But now she had come down. Had cooled off, too, and the very thin layer of sweat covering her back was starting to make her feel a chill of cold. She really should get dressed again before she freezes to death.

Part of her still wanted to stay just where she was, lying right against his skin, enjoying the feel of it, of his breathing slowly coming back to a more normal rhythm; basking in the feeling of the warmth emanating from him, from their joined bodies, from their touching chests and thighs... But the sensible part of her mind knew that it was time to go now that their coital session was over and that their respective compelling physical hungers had been satisfied.

Only this time she didn't say anything about not doing this ever again. She now knew better. No more vain wish, no wishful thinking anymore. No more drunkard's promise.

Yes, she knew better. She knew that they would do it again, whatever she was thinking right now or repeating herself over and over. The need, the thirst, the lust were too strong. Apparently much more than her very weak will. And than _his_, for that matter.

Yes, it was time to leave. Not uttering a word, she slowly and reluctantly pushed on her arms to release him: she had been crushing his body under her weight and she worried that it had been uncomfortable to him, but that he wouldn't dare complain. With some effort, she gathered enough strength in her spent limbs to roll on her back right beside him. She let out a sigh, both out of exertion and of regret at not feeling his warmth anymore: the floor was cold, hard and rough under her back; all what his skin and body weren't.

She didn't say anything. She looked at the roof, thinking hard now that her common sense was fully back. Absent-mindedly, she noticed old and dusty cobwebs here and there on the timber frame. Her breathing went almost back to normal.

A chill ran along her spine. Time to get dressed!

On an impulse, before sitting up she slightly turned her head to him and swiftly landed a quick kiss on his shoulder.

Why on earth did she do that, she wondered. That was preposterous: their passionate intercourse was over for today.

A bit awkward at the instinctive but unseemly gesture she just had, she rubbed her face with her hands and then quickly got up, gathering her discarded pieces of clothing here and there in the room.

Picking up her headdress from the workbench, she looked cherishingly at the worn wooden piece of furniture, fondly remembering their second unplanned mating session: in addition to the extra kind of use as a desk Branson had come up with for it years before, that day he had also found a third utilisation of it when he had sat her on it in order to better thrust into her, pounding harder and harder until...

Hum, well, time to get dressed as best as she could, now. But her clothing was complicated and not meant to be put on all by oneself: fine ladies were always dressed by maids.

As she was contemplating the matter at hand, she heard his voice gently tear the silence:

"You're beautiful."

She turned, surprised: he was still lying flat on his back, but had turned his head toward her and was watching her still naked figure intently, with something akin to awe and also surprise in his eyes.

Under this apparently appreciative gaze, she strangely felt a blush creep to her cheeks. She fought it back and won this fight, returning his scrutiny.

"You're not bad-looking yourself either, you know," she playfully retorted in an attempt to lighten the post-coital awkwardness they had experienced before.

Well, it was true, she thought, and she indulged in a few seconds of admiring contemplation of his stark-naked body.

Well, perhaps Branson was the solution to her current predicament, she thought. Even though his job had nothing to do with helping his masters get dressed...

But maybe he was still too tired and exhausted for that? He was still lying on the floor, hadn't moved at all, except for turning his head a little bit. Perhaps his limbs still refused the slightest effort, after the intense and draining climax?

His gaze had followed her arm down to the workbench that she was idly grazing with the tip of her fingers; his face lit up with a blissful smile: he too was probably remembering the very non-academic use they had made of it one month earlier.

She cleared her throat to get her voice back and asked him:

"Do you think you'd be fit enough to get up right now?"

His eyes widened.

"I need you," she added matter-of-factly.

He stared at her with bulging eyes.

"Wha... _Again, _Milady?" he asked, surprised "Right now? So soon after... I mean... I'm afraid..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but instead looked sheepishly at his now deflated nether regions.

Sybil was totally puzzled at his _'again'_. What did he mean...?

Suddenly, it dawned on her.

"Oh!" she cried out. "Oh, no, I didn't mean..." She followed his gaze down to his softened crotch. _Oh! What just happened to it?_ she wondered. _Or is it its normal state and size?_

She shook her head to clear her mind.

"I meant could you _stand_ up? Get up _on your feet_?" she saw fit to clarify. "I need your help in getting dressed..."

So with awkward and clumsy fingers he held out each piece or garment to her following her instructions, helped her slip them on, fumbled through fastening the pins and lacings, and hid her dishevelled hair under her headdress. That would have to do for now.

They didn't talk. She didn't want to discuss or overanalyse what had just happened – again! – between them. She knew it would happen again, despite the danger it was putting him in, despite her reason telling her it was a useless waste of time and energy, despite Mary's awareness of their private lessons. She knew they shouldn't, but she also knew they would. Because it was too good, too tempting, because he was too appealing, because their kisses were too intoxicating, and because finally he apparently wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

She hated her own weakness. She didn't want to talk. She silently finished checking her state of dress as he was standing in the middle of the room, still stark-naked, waiting for her to say something. _Anything_.

"It's getting late," she simply stated, "Brother Thybault might already be waiting for me and people will wonder where I've gone."

Not at all the kind of 'talk' Branson expected.

"Tomorrow, same time for your next lesson," she told him while crossing the threshold. "We'll carry on with Aristotle's dialectics."

And on this very teacher-like note, she left him and briskly walked back to the manor.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

From this day on, there had been more kissing than actual teaching and learning during their so-called 'lessons'. And then in their makeshift 'study', with their books opened before them, more words of desire and passion than of reading passed between them. Her hands strayed oftener to his thigh than to the pages, and _his_ hands found themselves at her bosom more often than to his quill and parchment; love drew his eyes to look on her face more than reading kept them on his texts. Their desires left no stage of lovemaking untried. They entered on each joy all the more eagerly so that they were previously almost inexperienced, and also were therefore less easily sated.(1)

When after a couple of days into their new... _relationship?_ – no, she told herself, it wasn't really a _relationship_, not in the way people meant this word; their _agreement_? Well, they didn't explicitly _agree_ on anything, not in the spoken form anyway. It was rather a _tacit_ agreement. _So,_ she resumed her previous train of thought, when for the first time since they had become physically intimate she didn't achieve ultimate pleasure, she made the most of it to observe and study his face as he climaxed: the contorted features, the wide opened mouth as if to let out a silent long shout, his head thrown back while his neck and spine were arched, the becoming rosy colour on his cheeks, his eyes screwed tightly shut... all this made an absolutely fascinating and unforgettable sight.

A very instructive one, too: it showed her the power they had on each other and taught her much about the similarity between men and women. And to reciprocate the teaching, once he had recovered she in turn instructed him on how to 'serve' her with... well, other parts of his being. And like the dutiful servant and the eager pupil he was to her, he willingly did.

* * *

After a few weeks she noticed with great shame that her attention was no longer as much on her studies and her education as it should have been, and also that the care she used to give to Branson's actual lessons nearly disappeared: before, she used to always prepare something, a text, a subject, a point to debate with logics, she wrote down some guidelines for her lesson and really put her attention and care in it. Now she just improvised, grabbing a book or a roll of parchment at random, and simply repeated what whoever its author was had written. What tutor worthy of the name would do that? In other words, she was simply botching up the task, now.

All that because her mind was entirely obsessed with lechery and lewd thoughts. Because her mind was crowded with reminiscences of their previous trysts and anticipation for the next one. Because he had invaded her mind and the thought of their passionate embraces was now taking precedence over philosophy and her love for logic. Her hunger for him had become stronger than her thirst for knowledge.

_Shame, shame, shame on you,_ her conscience was chastising her, _for neglecting the care of your mind in favour of the needs of your body._ For giving in to sloth because of lust.

She sighed.

But apart from this slightly inconvenient piece of guilt nagging at her at the back of her mind, Sybil was feeling absolutely wonderful about the new turn her life had taken a few months before. Now that Mary had given birth to a healthy son, had survived the childbirth and had fully recovered from it, the whole family and household was over the moon and their whole attention was on young George Crawley, future Earl Grantham – as late as possible – and on his mother. Sybil was again as free to come and go unnoticed as when she first met Branson.

She recalled that day: who would have thought, back then... She had been hardly more than a little girl, and he had already been a grown man; or at least, she had seen him as such... Yes, who would have thought. That had been the very first time she had ever hitched up his tunic, she reflected, but with absolutely no ulterior motive at that time.

Well, times change and little girls grow up.

But with Mary being now fully recovered, Sybil knew she would have to be more careful. Still, she was very happy and relieved at Mary's recovery; she didn't wish her sister any ill, quite the contrary.

So yes, things were wonderful; this new part of adult life she had discovered in the stableman's arms was absolutely wonderful. She couldn't even bring herself to be too sorry about neglecting her studies; or his, for that matter.

* * *

Over the last couple of weeks, Sybil had noticed that Branson sometimes spoke during the course of the act or of the foreplay. Well, not really 'spoke', but said little things, sweet nothings, more on impulse than anything else, nearly unconsciously, without overthinking these; most of the time it was things like 'you're beautiful', 'so sweet', 'you're amazing', 'I've missed you so much', 'you're wonderful', or simply 'oh M'lady'.

At first it had seemed a bit strange to her, all the more so that Branson wasn't really loquacious in the other aspects of his life, as far as she had noticed him interact with others. Or with herself. And Sybil, for her part, wasn't the talkative sort in these 'special moments'.

But the first time he called her by her first name in the heat of the moment, _only_ her fist name, not 'Milady', not 'Lady Sybil', but her fist name only without any title or mark of her rank, it made her get off and fly high above the earthly world. Just 'Sybil'.

And he noticed the effect it had on her, the sly little fox! From this day on, he sometimes moaned her first name during their foreplays, and she strongly suspected he was doing it on purpose, the tease! But when he panted "Sybil" on the climb to pleasure or cried it out on the brink of it, she thought it was just spontaneous: they weren't then in a state of mind that was clear enough to overthink those things.

But apart from during their intimate sensual moments, he never addressed her by first name only, of course: it just wouldn't be seemly. He was the servant and she was the master, he was the pupil and she was the tutor. That was the way the world worked. The order of things...

By the way, and just out of curiosity, what was Branson's Christian name? She'd have to ask him some day...

* * *

Yes, things had been going blissfully well, until a certain afternoon in their shed. To do justice to their commitment to things of the mind, they had _actually_ been studying Saint Augustine's _Confessions_ for one hour before hands decided on their own to sensually explore, and caress, and stroke, and fondle.

And after some time they found themselves partially naked in the middle of discarded quills and parchments, with their limbs passionately intertwined, sweating and occasionally kissing as he was setting the pace on the scale leading to seventh heaven.

_Good... good... feels really good..._ was all what Sybil's mind could think at this precise moment.

In the middle of the heat rising and growing, higher and stronger, of the burning tickling in their loins intensifying, in the middle of panting and clutching at each other's bunched up clothing, in the throes of passion and between two thrusts of his hips, he blurted out:

"Oh Sybiiiil... 'love you!"

_Good, good, good, soooo gooo–_ ...WHAT?!

_To Be Continued_

* * *

_1\. "Her studies allowed us to withdraw in private, as love desired it, and then with our books open before us, more words of love than of reading passed between us, and more kissing than teaching. My hands strayed oftener to her bosom than to the pages; love drew our eyes to look on each other more than reading kept them on our texts. [...] In short, our desires left no stage of lovemaking untried, and if love could devise something new, we welcomed it. We entered on each joy the more eagerly for our previous inexperience, and we were the less easily sated." _Historia Calamitatum,_ by Pierre Abélard._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_"Oh Sybil... I love you!"_

_WHAT?_

* * *

It sobered her up instantly, making her come down in a split second; the landing and return to Earth and reality was hard, to say the least, and she felt something icy and heavy spread suddenly in her chest and belly as her mind cleared up sorely.

But she felt absolutely stunned.

Her eyes wide opened, she stared at him, bemused. _What the...?_ Did she hear right? She froze under him. As caught up in what he was doing as he was, he didn't notice her sudden change of demeanour; he was too far gone, too close to the brink to take notice of anything and he zealously carried on with his current task.

She was relieved that it didn't reach his conscious mind, since she really didn't want to talk; relieved that he didn't stop to ask her if something was wrong, since she didn't want to have to explain, to have _that_ conversation. Not right now. Well, not _ever_, if she had her way... And after all, perhaps it just blurted out of his mouth as some kind of self-encouragement, of pep-talk, without any real meaning behind the words? Just like when he mumbled _'so good'_, or _'sweet Sybil'_, or anything that kind? A spur-of-the-moment-in-the-heat-of-action kind of meaningless words?

Or perhaps she simply didn't hear right? Perhaps he just called her a _dove?_ Perhaps he said that he _dove_ inside her? Perhaps he said he had a _low view?_ No, she reflected, these last two were just pure silly nonsense.

She felt him speed up his pace even more, saw his eyes roll upward. She knew the first wave of impending pleasure was just about to hit him.

Perhaps he had only meant he enjoyed being _above _her? She held onto this idea, regaining some hope at that thought and relaxing a bit. Some heat even returned to her stomach and her loins.

"I love you so muuuch..." he then moaned, throwing his head backwards, "oh m'darliiing...!"

So much for hearing wrong, she realised, flabbergasted by his words. He even called her his 'darling'! The icy paralyzing something came back full force, gripping her limbs and preventing her from moving any part of herself, from even battling en eyelid. It was as though her mind too totally froze, aghast and empty, astounded and vacant.

Stunned as she was, she didn't even watch his ecstasy, a sight she usually revelled in whenever she wasn't herself overcome with the same sensations. But right now her mind was too punch-drunk for that, too knocked out. For a few seconds it was a though her mind and whole body had gone blank. Not a good and pleasant kind of blank, though, and if her body had gone limp, it wasn't from exertion or intense pleasure.

Void. She felt void. Of anything. Of anything except perhaps a very slightly queasy sense of dread. A malaise. And this icy and heavy unknown something wasn't leaving her belly: it felt as though liquid lead had been poured inside her stomach like it sometimes was inside a convict condemned to torture, but instead of it being hot molten burning lead it felt cold, very very cold. Anyway, it felt as dense and heavy as lead.

When Branson finally stopped shaking and shuddering he collapsed onto her. He too felt very heavy on her body, she reflected. She had already experienced his full dead weight lying entirely on her, though, but it had never felt _that_ heavy before.

She simply refused the mere idea of what he just said, of what she just heard. She didn't want it, he hadn't any right to!

Denying... For a few nearly blissful seconds, denying seemed the ideal solution, the best way to deal with it. If she did as though he hadn't said anything, perhaps the disturbing thought would disappear and the awkward feeling would go away, and things would just revert to be like they were only five minutes earlier... She just wanted to bury this deep inside her pocket and shove her handkerchief over it, so that she could forget it and never think or hear about it ever again.

But somewhere in her head the logical part of her mind knew this couldn't be the solution. She _needed_ to do some thinking, she knew that. If only to let it sink in so that she could then better deal with it. She didn't _want_ to think about it, but she knew she _had_ to.

Flee. She wanted to flee, to run away from there, from _him_. He was still sprawled over her, his slowing breathing being the only sign that he was recovering: the rest of him was still totally motionless, as unmoving as if he were sleeping, limp, still. His weight was pinning her down.

She tried to move, to get away: she couldn't. She then tried to move _him_ off of her: impossible. She noticed that his forehead was resting – or rather had fallen down – right onto the mark he had unintentionally imprinted in her skin three days earlier when he had involuntarily bitten her shoulder while climaxing hard in the throes of searing pleasure.

And today's romp had started with Branson undoing the top five buttons of her dress so that he could ask for forgiveness with his lips to the skin he had damaged. Stopping the unbuttoning there, he had then pushed the velvet of the dress and the linen of the chemise to the side and made amend for his past behaviour by showering the slightly broken skin with soft and light kisses and caresses. But as the offended party, she had considered that this reparation wasn't satisfying enough and demanded redress – and not in the sense of _'dressing again',_ of course! And sure enough, the kind of compensation she claimed implied in fact a bit more undressing – mainly on his part – and a great many lot of touching and mingling. Things had then escalated quickly and soon they found themselves on the floor with hitched up clothes, moaning voices and interlocked bodies...

* * *

For Branson, life was wonderful at his moment. Well, it had been so since the day they shared a first kiss in this same room some months ago. Before that, he would have never dared to think she could reciprocate his feelings. But then, they kissed, and a whole new world of possibilities opened for him the instant her lips touched his... quickly followed by intense and deep disappointment a few seconds later when she expressed her regrets at what just happened...

Hearing her words he had felt his heart sink down to his heels and the bright future he had allowed himself to imagine for the two of them during these seconds of eternity suddenly crashed on his head, shattered in millions of tiny bits of broken dream, trickling down his being like a cold shower.

But a few days later, even more happened between them, something that he hadn't even let himself imagine before – hum, or _almost, _he had to admit, having fantasised quite a bit about her; and hope burgeoned again in his heart that she truly felt for him what he was feeling for her – after all, she wouldn't make love with him if she didn't _mean_ it, right? –only to receive just afterwards the same cold shower as earlier.

But after a few weeks, she finally accepted to embrace this new turn in their relationship and things had been idyllic between them since then. He's been living in heaven for a few months. Or _almost_. And this 'almost' was taking up more and more space in his mind and heart, tinting his bliss and happiness with hints of unpleasant malaise.

Yes, things had been idyllic, but frustrating. Branson didn't lose sight and awareness of the world they were living in: they might be in love, but he still was only a servant while she was a noble lady, an earl's daughter, and his master's at that! He couldn't just go to her parents and ask for her hand in marriage, despite everything. They had to keep their love and relationship secret, and it was making him immensely sad. He was desperately trying to come up with a way for them to be together, to have a future together, but he still wasn't seeing any. That's why he had never dared talk about their future with her, about making plans or anything. They had to live only in the present, in the immediacy. To take everything they could when they could, be it pleasures of the flesh or spiritual nourishment.

And right now, all he wanted was to cuddle her, to take her in his arms and trace light circles on her back with his hands and the tip of his fingers, to gently hold her and caress her skin until the time came that she had to go back to the manor... Well, once he had recovered enough from their lovemaking to be able to move a limb, anyway!

And now all what Sybil wanted was to go away. As soon as possible. But pinned under her collapsed lover as she was – _'lover'_, quite the right word it seemed! – she was trapped by him and couldn't move despite her attempts. At last, as a last resort she raised her free arm and awkwardly poked a few times at his shoulder with her forefinger to get his attention.

Branson laboriously rose his head two inches up to look questioningly at her face. His eyes were still a bit glazed from his petite mort but he did his best to focus on her.

"Uh..." she hesitantly began, "could you please..."

With her hand she made a lifting motion.

The message took some time to reach his hazy brain, but he finally seemed to realise that he was completely crushing her.

"Oh..." he breathed, panting. "Sorry..."

Gathering his strength, he managed to push slightly on his legs and arms to take some of his weight off of her. In doing so, he watched her face and finally seemed to notice her flustered and unfulfilled state, as well as the lack of the very becoming rosy colour her cheeks usually took when pleasure exploded in her. He could see that her eyes were still rather piercing and not at all dazed or out of phase, even though she wasn't looking straight at him but was rather trying to avert her eyes and to avoid his gaze.

"Oh!" he gently murmured, "you didn't..."

He left his sentence unfinished when, a bit sorry, he realised that she hadn't joined him in the pleasure feast. _Yet_. But his sentence was the only thing he intended to leave unfinished since, thanks to her guidance, he now knew what to do to remedy that kind of situation and was improving each time he practised; after all, it wasn't the first time it happened...

"Just wait..." he tenderly breathed, slowly moving down her body, leaving a thin trail of saliva down her belly while his right hand was already making its way between her legs.

"No," she simply told him while sitting up sharply, her hand pushing him back a little bit. She looked awkward, and he was totally at a loss as to why: it wasn't the first time he offered to service her that way, and in fact the first time it had even been her initiative! But since she just told him no, he simply stopped.

"I– I must..." she stuttered, "I have to go. I..."

She swiftly slipped from under him and quickly got up.

"I must go," she repeated as she was hastily setting her state her dress in order, thrusting her left breast back inside her corsage and buttoning it up, smoothing her skirts down, and finally straightening her headdress.

"But it's still early!" Branson protested, not understanding the reason for the sudden rush.

He was still sitting on the floor, half naked, his softened intimate parts exposed; he wasn't self-conscious or embarrassed anymore now around her about nakedness. But for a reason he couldn't fathom, she suddenly avoided looking at him.

"I've promised Lady Edith I would go for a ride with her before supper," she made up.

He chuckled.

"One would think you've done enough riding for today, though," he told her cheekily, reminding her of some part of their very recent lovemaking.

For once, it didn't make her laugh. Didn't even get a smile out of her. He was puzzled. Had he been _that_ mediocre, today?

Once she was decent, she hurriedly headed to the door and simply mumbled:

"Goodbye, Branson."

He really preferred when she called him 'Tom'.


End file.
